Sine Qua Non
by Kira
Summary: PostAsylum, Sam not only patches up his brother, but their relationship.


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_**Sine Qua Non**_  
An essential condition or element  
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He sits on the edge of the bed; face twisted just a bit, though he does bite his lip. Sunlight streams through tattered curtains even though they've been pulled closed, painting abstract lines across rust-colored carpeting. They climb high on the walls, splitting the ugly painting above the television into two parts; Dean feels it's an improvement, but then again, he's never had an eye for art.

A sharp prick overshadows the minuet sense of relief, and he chomps down harder on his bottom lip, not minding the tart taste of blood that touches his tongue. Better to have a swollen bottom lip than give any outward sign of weakness -- not _now_.

The room's eerily quiet, like the woods before a wendigo attack or the stillness of the air just before a poltergeist appears. Dust swirls in the air just over Sam's right shoulder, a ridged curve full of tension. He's sitting in one of the room's high-backed wooden chairs just across from his brother wielding a pair of silver tweezers.

Sam's face is full of hard lines; eyes mere slits, lips a line against red cheeks. The lack of sleep the night before is getting to him, and Dean isn't too sure he wants someone who's about to fall over asleep pulling chunks of rock salt out of his chest.

It goes on like this for awhile; Sam plucks out a piece, Dean clamps down on his bottom lip, and the salt's tossed into a small cup sitting among the scattered contents of their pathetically small first aid kit.

The pile grows, and Dean takes a moment to pause his newfound appreciation of motel art to frown at the cup. "Damn," he mutters, wincing at the pressure he feels when taking a deep breath. "Didn't know I loaded 'em with that much."

"Yeah," Sam says, a bit distracted as he examines a larger piece in the growing sunlight.

"Poor ghosts," Dean adds as an afterthought, and takes the pause in Sam's work to roll his shoulders and crack his neck. Movement's coming back to him, and he's beginning to feel a bit more _normal_.

"Actually," -- Sam moves in again, and Dean's treated to a view of messy brown hair -- "I don't think they feel it."

Dean snorts. "Yeah. Lucky bastards."

They lapse into silence again until Sam pulls out the last piece and gives Dean a glowing smile before picking up the cup and moving towards the solitary garbage can. All Dean can think of is that smug grin he wore when proclaiming rock salt wouldn't kill him, and he shakes his head to wash it out of his mind.

It doesn't work, so he stares at his reflection in the television instead.

He can't see any colors, but notices the big blotch off to the right side of his chest -- probably going to hurt for awhile, though he's not one to let a little thing like a bruise keep him down. Dean runs a hand through his hair and moves to stand up.

"I'm not finished," Sam says, and pushes his brother back down -- lightly -- by the shoulder.

"C'mon, man, I'm fine. Just need some sleep." And he punctuated his sentence with a stifled yawn.

"And what do you plan to tell the manager when he discovers his sheets are full of blood?"

Dean shrugs. "Eat my dust?"

"Right." Sam starts cleaning up the first aid kit, that sour expression he's had on his face since climbing into the car an hour ago.

And before he puts the antiseptic back in the black travel kit, Dean reaches out and puts a hand over his brother's. "Dude."

"I didn't mean any of it," Sam almost whispers.

"Don't give me that shit. You think that psycho doctor put that stuff into your head?" Dean motions to himself. "_I_ read that guy's journals, remember? He messed with people's heads, made all their angry thoughts come out. Sure, maybe you don't hate me or anythin', but you sure don't like me."

"I -- "

Dean holds up his hands. "Don't sweat it, man. It's cool with me."

"Just stop it, Dean, okay?" Sam almost yells. "You don't need to be this...this tough guy all the time. How can you say it's cool with you when I almost -- "

"What, killed me?" Dean shrugs. "Just don't do it again." He shifts and swipes the antiseptic from the bed. "And rock salt? That was just mean."

Sam just gapes, unmoving.

Dean squeezes a bit of the medicine onto his fingers and spreads it over the small wounds dotting his chest. He finishes, and Sam's still standing there, still awe-struck, eyes wide.

"Sammy, this job brings out the worst of, well, everything. You think that's the first time some crazy sprit's gonna take you over? It's not. But now, I'm prepared if something like this happens again. Why do you think I gave you an empty gun?"

"Again!" Sam shouts. "You're not worried because, wait, you're prepared if I point at gun at your head _again_?"

"It's going to happen. You've got to accept that."

There's no end to Sam's amazement at this creature sitting in front of him, and he sits next to his brother, hoping the proximity will help him hear correctly.

"And you do?"

"Accept that sometimes goofy spirits possess people?" Dean asks. "Hell, yeah. Part of the job."

"Oh, right. Just part of the job," Sam quips sarcastically. "Are you even listening to what you're saying?"

"Are you?"

It's a rare introspective moment; it's not everyday Sam hears his brother speak in anything but a cocky, smart-ass tone. Dean just sits there, eyes begging the question -- asking Sam to just _let it go_ and get on with things.

"Not going to let me say I'm sorry, are you," Sam states.

Dean shakes his head. "No touchy-feely. God, what is it with you and _feelings_?"

"I'm human?"

"Good," -- Dean claps him on the shoulder -- "cause I was worried about that one, psychic boy."

Sam groans; when it comes to teasing, his brother's relentless, and something like this is going to go on _forever_. "Too bad I can't read your mind."

Dean laughs, a loud, deep, hearty laugh that makes his chest hurt just enough to remind him he's alive. There's still a lot he has to learn about Sam, and he's sure it works the other way around.

"You sure you'd want to?" Dean asks.

His brother shrugs, and gives him a long, hard look, as if mulling the question over in his mind. The sunlight's stronger, now, pouring through the curtains and completely obscuring the painting Dean had been examining.

"Sometimes, I just don't know what you're thinking."

"Fine." Dean moves to cross his arms over his chest, but decides against it after the skin near his shoulder pulls just a little bit _too_ tightly. "You want to know what I'm thinking? I'm thinking I've gotta run this operation cause you resent the hell out of dad, which pisses me off. But hey, that's your choice. Me? I'm gonna do what dad says because he's saved my ass more than a few times, and I owe him. Sure, that's a fucked up relationship, but it's all I got.

"I mean, I've got you, but hey, you left once before. And now, you think I'm pathetic for doing something I think is right. Fine. I can deal with that. I think you were stupid to try to be normal, college boy."

And that's the most Dean's said about himself in a long time, and he feels a little lighter but curses himself for being such a weakling. Feelings were for pussies who watched _Oprah_ and read magazines and ate healthy food instead of nice, big, cheeseburgers.

"Okay."

"Yeah? Good. Cause man, am I hungry."

Sam volunteers to get them something to eat on the condition that Dean tries to get a little rest while he's out -- something like _this_ isn't going to change their relative roles, and Sam's always been the mothering type. It's how he shows he cares, and he's sure smart-assed remarks are how Dean shows it all.

He only wishes he knew what happened to Dean during those four years he was away at Stanford to make his brother collapse in on himself and lock away his feelings.

But that's for another day. For now, he's content they're fine as he opens the motel room door and squints out into the morning sunlight. Just as he is about to step out into the world, he hears Dean's voice behind him.

"You really think I'm pathetic?"

This isn't a time for lies. "Yeah, kinda."

His brother laughs. "Good. Cause I think you are, too. Jerk."

"Loser."


End file.
